


Tumblr One-Shot Collection

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, One Shot Collection, different warnings apply to different ficlets, each chapter will have warnings at the top
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:57:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: These are various one-shots, either prompted, requested, or inspired by art, collected from tumblr.The first chapter features coerced sex, so the warning applies here.





	1. Chapter 1

Their meeting place was dark when the Spy slunk in, the Sniper already bare to his waist and waiting in the shadows. Spy began discarding his own clothes as he crossed the small space, the smell of dust and old wood and the creak of the floorboards all comfortingly familiar, the little outbuilding halfway between RED and BLU.

The first kiss tasted wrong, the hands that quickly came up to grip him somehow strange, and he pulled away, eyes adjusting to the low light of the room and filling in the reason for this confusion– he was with his teammate, not his lover.

“You!” He sputtered, bile rising in his throat, first at the thought of how much he’d let happen, then at how much more he could have easily allowed to follow, if he hadn’t given into his suspicious nature. A second wave of queasiness soon followed at the question it all begged. Where was the man he’d come to meet?

“You don’t miss a trick, do ya?” The Sniper chuckled, half-admiring. “What’s the matter, love? Surprised?”

“What… what have you done to him?” He whispered.

“Nothing permanent. Your little playmate’ll be right as rain when they fire respawn up in the morning. This time, anyway. Course, if anyone else found out about your little games, he might not be.” The Sniper stalked closer, until he was standing too close, leaning too far into the Spy’s space.

“And what do you want from me?”

“You know what I want,” He whispered, voice a low hot rumble in the Spy’s ear as the man pushed in even closer, to press his half-hard length into the Spy’s hip, roll against him.

“Get off of me!” The Spy broke away, looked for the clothes he’d thrown off so hastily when he first arrived. It was a mistake– his teammate was right behind him, nearly on top of him the moment he stood, shirt in hand.

“That’s no way to be friendly, love. Come on, now… we’re not so different, him and me. Sure you and I could have a lot of fun. Or I could find a taker for some very interesting photographs…”

“You don’t have photographs.” He shook his head, tasting the acid rise up the back of his throat again, feeling his skin crawl.

“Sure about that, love? Looking through a camera’s not so different from looking through a rifle scope. Or did you really think you were the only one round here to take pretty pictures?”

“And you are nothing like him.”

“Just give me a little something, sweetheart. I’m trying to be nice to you, ain’t I? Giving you a chance instead of just turning you in.” The Sniper murmured, nibbling at the shell of the Spy’s ear through the thin fabric of his balaclava.

“Monstre,” Spy whispered.

“Shh… you be good to me, love, and I’ll be good to you. Won’t even make you stop seeing your little playmate, long as you give me the same consideration. Could be a lot of fun for you…” He slid a hand up the Spy’s arm, then over his chest.

The Spy dropped his shirt at the touch, felt his heart speeding, racing as he weighed his options. Later he could search the man’s space for these photographs, but only if his teammate believed he truly had the upper hand… He couldn’t take any risks, not where his lover’s safety was concerned. Bad enough that he had to spend the entire night in the strange machine limbo of respawn.

“Besides,” The voice crooned, the Sniper nuzzling against him. “Wouldn’t you rather be with someone on your own side? Someone who’s never hurt ya? Man who never throws his piss at you?”

“This once.” He whispers, and he would rather keep his emotions hidden, but he allows enough through in his voice. Revenge will be easier, if the man thinks he is broken now. “This once, if you promise… you won’t go after him again?”

“See…” Another hand slides up his back, up to his neck. “Course, love, we’ll all be nice and friendly-like with each other… Knew you’d see reason on this.”

Reason. He holds back a bitter snort, but can’t stop a single tear. No matter his reasons, it still feels like a betrayal, as his own hand moves back to wrap around the erection that prods him from behind. If he can hold up under the petting, if he can bring the man off with a quick handjob before it goes any further… It still hurts, sits like a stone somewhere between his stomach and his heart, a sick heaviness as he thinks about his lover suspended in not-death-exactly while he does all this with someone else.

Thinking about the revenge he’ll have later, though… that makes it all bearable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Implied violence (which is par for the course), nothing on-screen. Angst.

When communication from the companies was cut off, the war changed. The rules changed. Suddenly, they decided they cared about the intel, not just as a prize, but as a source of information that they could no longer get any other way. Then, they began to take prisoners.

When his team took the Sniper, there was nothing the Spy could do, nothing that would not expose them both. Nothing that would not sign the Sniper’s death warrant– and his own. If their relationship was discovered, they would be taken out of respawn. They would die traitors, and they wouldn’t come back.

It was a stroke of luck, then, that he was put in charge of interrogations. The others came in, at times, to vent their frustrations, to torture, but when the Spy locked the door and the room went silent, no one dared interrupt. After all, he knew all the arcane tricks of his trade. Surely, whatever he did in that dark little room was too horrible even to witness, and none of them could understand why the Sniper did not break.

Inside, the Spy merely held his lover to him, whispered apologies and struggled to soothe away any pains his teammates caused. It was not nearly enough. But it was all that he could do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/comfort, with the hurt occurring off the page.

The enemy Spy was in his camper.

The Sniper knew this was a thing which absolutely Should Not Be, but there it was. The enemy Spy was in his camper.

His bed, really– and he was glad he’d rearranged the whole area to have the bed out in the open instead of up over the cab, a change he’d made because the narrow space had been too confining, too claustrophobic, to allow him any sleep. It was fine for storage, with just a little modifying, and having the bed down below certainly made it easier to get the Spy into it.

Which he shouldn’t have done.

What else was he supposed to do, though? He’d woken Saturday morning only to see the man curled up in the dust of no-man’s-land, bruised and bloodied and completely unconscious. Sure, he took a certain savage delight every now and then in killing the spook himself, but there was such a thing as human decency, and he wasn’t that far removed from it! This was the weekend, besides. He hadn’t even bothered putting on his work clothes.

He was sore tempted to peek under the mask, but he didn’t. Busied himself, instead, fetching a basin of warm water from inside the base. He had a battered basic first aid kit in the camper, nothing like the fancy ones that littered the field, but there was no way he could bring one of those to the Spy, no way he could just fetch him a Medic. With any luck he could patch him up enough to send him back to his base so that his own team’s Medic could see to him, at least…

“Hey there,” He murmured– couldn’t quite make his voice sound gentle, not to his own ears, but he hoped it didn’t come off as menacing– as the Spy started to stir. He dipped a flannel in the warm water, dabbing at the sliver of forehead the Spy’s mask exposed.

The reaction wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was about what he’d expected. The man started, panicked, but… well, not like he could get anywhere. Couldn’t do much more than cower at the far corner of the bed, arms coming up to protect his torso.

“Relax.” Again, he tried for gentle, and felt he probably missed the mark. “Look, I only want to help ya.”

The Spy’s gaze darted around the confines of the camper, before lighting on the red shirt draped over a chair, turning back to the Sniper in confusion. “You? Want to… help?”

“Not paid to fight you today.” He shrugged, and when the Spy relaxed just a fraction, he used the now-cooler damp cloth to wipe gently at the dust around a rather impressive shiner. “Did you not make it back in last night?”

“No. The team… we drank, then we fought. More than usual, for both. I usually avoid it.” He winced, before schooling his expression.

“Yeah, I’d avoid a dust-up like that, too. What the hell do you all have to fight over, amongst yourself? You’re not also sleeping with your Scout’s mum, are ya?”

“No. Far from it. Not… not, ah, sleeping with anyone at the moment. It was stupid. I should have gone before everyone got drunk and violent and idiotic…”

“Yeah, they probably shouldn’t have kicked your arse and left you outside overnight, too. Give as good as you got?” The Sniper chuckled.

“Broke the Scout’s wrist. Sniveling little child probably went and woke the Medic up to fix it. But by then the Demoman and the Heavy joined in, and we wound up outside– I am not sure if the Heavy was even around to hear the fight start, but… ah, he used to box, so… and he is huge. Probably laid us both out, dragged the Demoman back inside and forgot he left me out there.”

“Never woulda guessed your base was so much fun.” The Sniper shook his head, smirking. “Break anything?”

“Probably.” The Spy groaned.

“Any chance of me getting under all them layers to try and patch you up some?”

“… if you don’t need my help to do it.”

“Sure thing.” He smiled, loosening the man’s tie and working at his buttons. “Learned some first aid in my time, you know. Dunno how useful any of it’ll be today, but here’s hoping, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The Spy echoed on a sigh, eyes closing. The same firm, unbending expression came over his face, as the Sniper started feeling around for damage beneath the bruises. Stubborn… but he could respect that. If he was the one being taken care of by an enemy, he’d be trying not to show any signs of pain, he was sure.

He decided to just feel the Spy’s legs through his trousers– unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat and shirt was all one thing, but stripping him entirely was another– too unwieldy, too awkward and potentially painful, damaging even.

“Could be worse. Your doc’ll set you right once you’re back home and he’s up and about. Here,” He popped a couple of aspirin from the bottle, lifting the Spy’s head and placing them on the man’s lower lip, reaching for his canteen and opening it with his teeth, glad it was still half full. “Hang on, got some water for ya. Your legs are fine, so once these kick in and you warm up a bit, you’ll be fine to walk.”

He watched the dark blue throat, the bob of the adam’s apple as the Spy swallowed, and the angle of his head, supported as it was. The glistening wet on his lips and the velvety dark pink tongue that licked it away. He wasn’t sure if this was worse than thinking about the Spy unprofessionally during the working week… he noticed things then, too, always.

The enemy Spy was in his camper. And he very much wanted it to be a regular occurrence, under happier circumstances.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the other non-con chapter (afaik the only other one, it's not something I write often)

The worst part wasn’t the pain– not by far. It wasn’t being bound, it wasn’t being stripped, wasn’t even being touched. The worst part was that he was getting hard.

“You’re wondering why this is happening, I imagine.” The Spy said, and there was nothing but cool disinterest in his voice, his hands moving as if by rote, rough caresses, pinching and pulling and shoving, but also teasing, stroking, gentling in the wake of pain delivered.

He couldn’t answer, could only try to snarl around the saliva-soaked gag.

“This is nothing personal– not for you, I mean. You shouldn’t have gotten involved with him, I would have no use for you then.” One hand roamed lower, squeezing the burgeoning erection. “Having fun? Ah, I see– purely physical. If it’s any consolation, I do not get off on this. No? Well.”

He shrugged, taking the Sniper’s pants down and working him a little more, until he was satisfied with the state of arousal. He stepped back, taking up his camera, getting a few shots of the Sniper. He untied the gag, laughing as he pulled his hand back from an attempted bite.

“So animal. Of course, under other circumstances… Does he like that about you? Well. Call for help if you want to.”

The Sniper didn’t. The Spy was his teammate, he would have to let him down eventually, even if he knocked him unconscious first… He didn’t want anyone else seeing him like this, not if he could help it. He didn’t want…

“Don’t,” He croaked.

“Don’t what?” The Spy smirked. “Don’t show him? Oh no. He will get these photographs. You can tell him what you like about it, but they will still hurt him to see, don’t you think? I hope so. I hope they tear his heart out. Like I said, your involvement is purely chance… I didn’t set out to hurt you. But maybe you should have been more careful about your choice in playmates. Unless you think you can make it worth my while, not to give them over to him?”

His face heated at the implication, but he kept his head– the Spy still betrayed no arousal of his own, and that told him it was an empty threat.

“Don’t have anything you want.” He spat.

“Oh, more is the pity.” The man sighed, pulling out a dictaphone, tossing it onto the table beside the camera. “I had hoped to record you begging for me. But the photos will be fine.”

“I don’t look happy in ‘em.”

“I didn’t take pictures of your pretty face.” The Spy laughed. “I am composing the note to go with them… 'Your little friend likes it rough. He finally found a real man to give it to him. You should have heard him.’”

“He’ll still know.”

“Maybe.”

“He’ll kill you. And he won’t stop.”

“Maybe.” A shrug, a smile, politely bored. He brought a syringe and a vial out from his coat pocket. “You’re going to go to sleep now. When you wake up in the infirmary, I will have told everyone that I found you. You had been kidnapped by the BLU Spy, I recognized him because he was disguised as me. Whatever deviant torment he subjected you to, they must be understanding, if it has left you confused.”

“You wouldn’t– You can’t–”

“Oh, I would. I can. I will. You tell that son of a whore when you see him that he messed with the wrong man. If you see him, before your friends string him up.”

He grinned, and everything around the sharp sickle of teeth went black.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> non-shippy RED Spy with BLU Sniper

He never went down easy. An admirable trait, in an enemy, if usually an annoying one. Still, the Spy had to admit, he enjoyed it when the BLU Sniper got feisty.

They kept up a heated rivalry during the war, not too different from that of their counterparts. He didn’t think he would see the man again, when it ended.

He was wrong.

It felt… strangely natural, to buy the man a drink. His eyes traced over the scar he’d left, years ago now. He asked questions, nothing too prying… Friendly, almost. Did he keep in touch with his old team, did he live in town or was he only passing through, was he settling down or keeping busy…

The answers he got were sad, short and bitter. Lonely. And after a few more drinks, he invited the Sniper up. Dinner, he pressed. The Scout would be there, if he wanted to see an old friend, as well as an old enemy. The boy’s mother would be happy to have company, she loved to entertain, could certainly afford to now, as the bride of a well-to-do ex-spy.

The Sniper was going to say no. The Spy could see it in him. And then… Then he could see the change, the slight softening, the little warmth. It wouldn’t be so bad, he admitted, to see how the kid had grown up since the official merger put an end to their war. Make sure he was keeping out of trouble.

The Spy beamed, promising a pleasant reunion, food, and enough wine to make the guest bed a necessity. There was something that felt right, about taking care of an old rival, if only for an evening. They had been the bitterest enemies, he’d scarred the man– the only permanent scar that he knew of, to have come out of that strange war, with machines that made death immaterial. And now, he would take him home, and feed him, and put him in touch with his own former teammate.

Maybe it was squaring a debt, or maybe this retirement was making him soft. Or maybe… Maybe he just remembered how hard the man could fight, and he respected that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some violence, some angst.

“I’m gonna ask you one… last… time.” The Sniper growled, his boot pressing into the Spy’s back– and causing the Spy to lean into the edge of the kukri.

He hissed, but didn’t cry out, his words slow and deliberate and very, very careful. “I would have an easier time talking, if you weren’t about to take my head off.”

“No more games, Spook…” The blade drew along the side of the Spy’s throat, a little blood spilling. Painful, but not nearly fatal, not yet.

“Merde…” Another hiss and a little groan. “Let me up, damn you, or kill me!”

The Sniper pulled his kukri the rest of the way away, kicking the Spy down onto the floor.

“Where did you get the handcuffs, anyway?” The Spy asked, his cheek pressed into the flat, itchy carpet.

“That’s none of your business. Come home from a late night walk to find you half naked in my bed, and I think that’s my business.” He turned the Spy over, rolling him onto his back with one foot.

“I sleepwalk.” The Spy’s gaze slanted away.

“Sleepwalk? Into enemy territory? So you can crawl into my bed? Pull the other one, mate.” He pointed the tip of the kukri at the Spy’s throat again, standing over him.

“You weren’t even in it. No harm done– not to you.” He spat out a mouthful of blood, his head still turned away.

“Yeah, and if I had been?”

“Then I presume you would have woken me just as rudely. This is very uncomfortable, you know.”

“Yeah, well, once I get an honest story out of you, no worries, I’ll kill ya. No more uncomfortable handcuffs.”

“I am still quite interested in why you had those.”

“Bet you are.” The Sniper sneered. “I just bet you are. Interested in a lot of things, sneaking into a man’s bed in the middle of the night.”

The calm, light demeanor faltered, real fear in the Spy’s eyes. “Sleepwalking! You can ask anyone on my base, they know it happens sometimes!”

“You crawl into bed with them, too?”

“No!”

He reached down, grabbing the Spy by one upper arm and yanking him up to his feet roughly, shoving him back into the little flip-down dining table. “Sleepwalking, that the story you tell when they catch you where you don’t belong at night?”

“Our Medic has a file on it– ask your own spy to steal it if you don’t believe me!”

“Don’t get cute.” He gave the Spy a shove, bending him back over the table. “You think I’d believe a word of it– think I’d believe you even tell your own doctor the truth? If there was a file on you that wasn’t a pack of lies, you’d never tell me where I could find it.”

“Fuck you!” The Spy snarled, already on the defensive over the accusations, on edge from the pain in his arm, his face, his throat, sick from the taste of blood thick in his mouth and the way his head reeled.

It was, he allowed, the wrong response, the little he could see of the Sniper’s eyes through the tinted lenses made that clear, and even if they didn’t, the raised arm did, the kukri speeding down only to lodge in the table less than an inch from the Spy’s side.

“Right.” The Sniper hauled him up again, spinning him around and shoving him up against the camper’s skinny little wardrobe, the Spy’s already-bruised cheek hitting the closet door. He felt the cuffs being undone, and the next thing he knew he was being shoved out the back, landing on his hands and knees in the dirt. “Get out, and if you ‘sleepwalk’ back here, I’m gonna make it hurt and I’m gonna make it last, ya good for nothing bloody sneak!”

The Spy had been at too great a disadvantage, being roused from his normal sleep only to be pulled down from the high bunk in the Sniper’s camper, battered around, cuffed, and tossed about some more. He was bleeding, and he was cold, and he’d been exhausted enough to fall into bed half-dressed when the night began, something this episode didn’t help. He made his way back to his own base, his own quarters, as quickly as he could.

The Sniper slammed the door, turned out the lights, and shucked his clothes off before climbing into bed. His pillow smelled like someone else, the strange-familiar scent of the Spy’s sweat on his sheets, a smear of blood on his hand… he tasted it, sharp and coppery, when he licked his palm.

Sleepwalking.

He believed it. Of course he believed it. The only reason that made sense, no matter what he said, hateful accusations he’d thrown out not because he thought they could ever be true, but because he lived in fear of falling under them himself.

He buried his face in his pillow, wrapping a hand around his cock, half-hard since he’d first found himself standing over the panting, shirtless frenchman, and he was only glad the man had been too disoriented to take notice of it.

It could have been worse, he knew that, could have been a cruel joke, could have been the Spy finding out about what he wanted and teasing him with it, but it was still a rough thing to have what he wanted so close and know it was never really in his grasp to have, and he sobbed a strangled apology into his pillow as he brought himself off to the only thoughts that seemed to get him there anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy ending to the previous chapter's ficlet.

The Sniper is rarely bothered by insomnia. Since the last night it struck him, his head has hit the pillow right on schedule every night, and most nights he’s slept straight through to wake with the dawn.

A couple of nights, not so much. A couple of nights the Spy had been back, and though he’d never gone through on his promise to make it a very messy fatal one, there have been fights, and brutal moments. Waking a sleepwalking Spy, the Sniper had quickly discovered, was pretty dangerous indeed, and it was lucky for him that when the Spy did wake, he was usually some combination of suddenly-groggy and immensely embarrassed. If they were pretty even, then the Sniper had no trouble getting the upper hand and throwing him out, once he was properly awake. And if the Spy had the Sniper on the ropes when he snapped into consciousness, he tended to flee with a mortified apology.

This time, the Sniper didn’t feel like a fight. He held still and hoped that when the morning came, the Spy would slip out believing he’d managed not to wake him. And, if he was honest with himself, which he tried not to be, he liked having him there, warm, the unfamiliar-familiar of the nearness of him and the gentle breath against his neck, and the barest hint of the scent of sweat, with no fighting, no struggle.

The Spy’s arm slipped around his waist, and he allowed that too.

“How was your day?” The Spy asked, voice muzzy with sleep.

“Uh. Good.” The Sniper whispered back.

There was a pause, and the Spy chuckled, carried on half a conversation with the dream his body thought the Sniper belonged to, and the Sniper let him, relieved that his answers weren’t really necessary.

The Spy’s hand slid down his stomach, and he grabbed the other man’s wrist, pulling it back up to safer waters. Not chest-high, that was nearly as bad, but he let the arm stay around his middle.

“Too tired, Cher? Tomorrow.” He yawned, cuddling up close. “Tomorrow… we’ll do something special.”

The Sniper groaned, shifting forward as far as he could, but soon the Spy was wrapped around him and snoring softly, and he felt himself drifting off after, giving into the embrace.

He woke up to the Spy falling off the bunk, swearing.

“Morning.” He rolled over, sliding out of bed. “Figured I might get more sleep if I just left you to yours. You weren’t hurting anything…” He kicked at his carpet. “For once, I mean. But you might want to figure out a way to keep yourself to yourself.”

“I’ve tried. I am crafty asleep. I’ve unlocked doors, I’ve untied ropes, I’ve evaded teammates… I, uh… I didn’t… I mean– The other night–”

“You were about two inches from finding out I wasn’t who you were dreaming about, but you didn’t really try anything, nah.” He shrugged, uncomfortable. “Dunno why you end up here…”

“Not every time. Sometimes I wake up on the field. I’ve known about the… problem for a long time, I always sleep in my mask.” The Spy shifted around, looking everywhere but at the Sniper’s face.

“Think if you started out here, you’d sleepwalk back home?” It was meant to be a joke, and it came out sounding like an offer. The Sniper swallowed hard as the Spy’s gaze snapped up to his.

“No. I doubt it. I mean– I would probably wind up out on the field.”

“So.” He coughed. “You dream about someone in particular? Sounded like you were, uh–”

“I talk, too?” He took a quick step back, eyes widening.

It seemed like an overreaction to such a minor detail, on top of everything else, but then, he was a spy…

“Nothing top secret. Pillow talk, actually.”

“My apologies.” He looked down again, and the Sniper could see a blush creeping in at the edges of his mask. “I– That wasn’t– You weren’t supposed–”

“Yeah, I figured it wasn’t for me, mate.” The Sniper shrugged it off, pretended it didn’t sting to say it out loud. “Anyway, look. I’d rather have you wake me up slipping out than slipping in, so if you think there’s a chance you’ll migrate somewhere else, you can… you can start out here, just as an experiment, mind. Since apparently there’s no stopping you.”

The Spy flashed him a nervous smile before ducking out, but he returned that night before the Sniper was asleep, looking alert.

“Thought I would take you up on your offer.” He staked out a place in the camper, sitting at the table and leaning against the wall, with his legs stretched out into the wide ‘aisle’.

“N'night, then.” The Sniper rolled over. He should have felt strange or apprehensive, turning his back on the Spy, but the man had been in and out of his home so many nights without posing much of a real threat that it didn’t seem to matter.

“Goodnight.” The Spy yawned.

The Sniper fell asleep first– or at least, fell asleep before he heard the Spy’s soft snoring– but he woke up again when instead of slipping out the door, the Spy slipped into his bed again.

He contemplated waking the man up, consequences be damned, contemplated maybe just shoving him out of bed, but then the Spy’s lips were on the back of his neck and he was allowing it.

“You had a good day today.” A soft, sleep-addled chuckle.

 

“Er. Yeah.” He had, not that he thought it made much difference, under the circumstances. But it felt only natural to answer when it was the truth. “Pretty good.”

“Do you ever think of leaving it all behind, mon amour?”

“Maybe? Spy, I’m going back to sleep now, if you could keep it down.”

“We should whisk each other off somewhere.” Another little chuckle, a squeeze and a nuzzle to his shoulder. “We can even take that filthy van of yours, if you think it will get us anyplace worth going.”

The Sniper froze. His van? The Spy was talking to him? The Spy was dreaming about him? Well, it explained why the sleepwalking took him out to the camper so often.

The Spy laughed as though there had been an answer, and mumbled on in French until the quiet snoring took the place of any more words. The Sniper rolled over and wrapped an arm around the Spy. When he woke… he could talk to him about it when they were both properly awake.


	8. Chapter 8

They’d been out in the middle of nowhere a long time, and the Spy doesn’t think he’ll have any trouble convincing the other man that they could do something for each other.

And then, then there is a long moment of scrutiny, that makes him feel small, makes him feel as though the Sniper ses right through the expensive suit, right through the way he always holds himself, the carefully plucked vocabulary, straight to the scared boy at the heart of him who barely ever dreams of something good.

“Nah, dunno.” The Sniper shrugs at last, and turns away.

“You could give me the chance to convince you.” The Spy says, but the light, flirtatious tone falls flat, he fears there’s a thread of desperation in it.

“Doubt it.” He snorts, and that… that is too dismissive by far, cuts to the quick.

“Feel free to look for better prospects, then.” The Spy rolls his eyes, arms folding over his chest. “As if you will find them out here. We are three days out from civilization, and I don’t see your employers shipping girls out.”

“Not interested in girls.” The Sniper leans in and leers, and the Spy hates himself for thrilling to it when there’s something cold underneath. “Why’d you think I turned you down?”

His hands ball into fists, and he turns away. He hasn’t invested enough to call what he feels heartache, exactly, but his pride has never been so bruised, and he’s furious, but the attraction is still there. He could never make the offer to his own team’s Sniper– could never take needs like these to where he works, the risks were too great, with that.

He’s vicious, throughout the next round, but when the round ends, the Sniper catches him by the wrist and backs him into the wall, and chuckles down at him.

“I hope you’re not trying to prove yourself, Spook.”

“I have nothing to prove. You piss me off, that’s all.”

“Oh? Well, good. Because you’ll never get me like that.”

“H-how… How do I get you?” He asks, and he hates himself for that, too, but he gets lonely the same as anyone might– anyone but the Sniper, apparently, and if there’s an answer, he wants it.

“I’m not impressed by your snake-in-the-grass act. I think you fight like a woman. And all the invisible watches and backstabbing in the world is only going to fix that opinion right in place. If you want to fuck me, you’d better prove you’re man enough for the job.”

The Spy snorts, looking away quickly and then meeting the Sniper’s eyes again. “By throwing myself face first into someone else’s line of sight? By getting myself killed more often and killing fewer men myself? You can call my methods what you like, but the way I see it, I fight smarter. Not harder.”

“Oh, feisty Spook.” The Sniper laughed. “Is the perfume part of fighting harder?”

“It’s aftershave.”

“It’s poncey.”

“You are the one who seems to have a disdain for fucking women, I would think ‘poncey’ is not an issue for you.”

“You don’t belong here.” The Sniper sighs, releasing him roughly and stepping away. “Oughta run home to the city. I’m always surprised you don’t keel over from heatstroke, running around the desert in a damn three piece suit.”

“You think city life is cushy?”

“Think it’s pretty cushy.”

“Suppose I drop you in the slums as you are now and ask you to live.” The Spy snaps. “You can’t just shoot things to fix your problems, and you are surrounded by people out to get you– don’t think they aren’t!– You couldn’t shoot them, either, you’ll never be five miles away from every man in a city who might wish you harm. I don’t– I don’t need you, either, you know?”

The Sniper’s expression turns thoughtful. “You don’t mean that, though… do you?”

“I mean it.” He pouts. “I could have any man out here, you know? You’re the only idiot in this war who’d complain about a partner with a little refinement.”

“You don’t want them, though. Sure, bet half of 'em at least would take you up on it if you offered to suck 'em off, but they’d be thinking about a woman while you did it. No one else out here wants a man. And you don’t really want to play girl, do you?” He’s self-assured, smirking and crowding into the Spy’s space again.

“I am as much a man as you are. If you don’t want me…” He wanted to finish his sentence with 'why?’, couldn’t quite make himself say 'fine’. “I don’t understand what you do want. You want to fuck some… some Soldier or something? That won’t happen.”

“I don’t want to fuck one of the Soldiers.” The Sniper rolls his eyes. “Get my head cracked open for asking, or run into the same problem you would. Have to play girl. Besides…” He grins at the Spy. “More of a bottom myself.”

The Spy shudders, sways towards him. “Why would you even say that, if you don’t want me, dammit?”

He chuckles, patting the Spy’s cheek. “Because maybe you could change my mind, if you want it enough.”

“… I don’t suppose flowers would impress you much?”

“It would impress me if you could get your hands on some.” The Sniper laughs. “But I wouldn’t want 'em.”

“What do you want?”

“Just want a man, really. Ah, not your fault, I’m used to blokes that make me look tiny. Guess I’m flattered, though. Counts for something that the whole conversation didn’t take place in a men’s room.” He shrugs.

“Well, I am a man.”

“Well, so am I.” Another shrug. “Counts for something you just came out and asked instead of treating me like a bloody sheila, too, then.”

“How much does it count for?”

They both leaned against the wall of the nest, side by side, and eventually, they slid to sit on the floor, the Sniper letting out a long, slow exhale as he thought the question over.

“Well, all right. Could give you a chance, bound to be better than nothing. Come around sometime– the van, yeah? Not here. Not saying it’ll be a regular thing, but… try and impress me.” He winks. “Who knows, maybe I’m wrong about you. Not wrong about people most of the time, but you’re hard to get a handle on for a living.”

The Spy tries not to come over too grateful, or to let the wink get to him, but when he shows up with a couple of beers in hand, he feels antsier than the chance to get laid should account for.

“Thanks.” The Sniper accepts one, letting him in.

He doesn’t seem much for conversation, while they drink, and rebuffs the Spy at every attempt at a kiss, but when they’re undressed, there’s a little surprised smile at the end of his frank appraisal.

“All right.” He reaches out, gives the Spy’s hip a squeeze as he eyes him. “Guess we can work with that… probably for the best, anyway, been a while.”

He’s a little upset, by the implication that the Sniper is used to bigger, but apparently he’s big enough, or at least, better than the other man expected him to be, and that’s something. He’s determined to prove himself. He’d floundered ineptly through the initial seduction, but he’d been given a shot anyway, and now all he had to do was show the Sniper a good time.

Kissing would have helped– he considers himself a good kisser, and he likes kissing, but he’s willing to not argue the point just yet. There’s a little well of hope in him, though, rusty and rarely drawn from, that says he could beg a kiss after, when the Sniper’s wrung out and post-orgasmic.

The Sniper sighs, as he hands over a jar of Vaseline, eyes making another quick measurement of them both.

“What?” The Spy asks, arousal wilting just a little at the prospect of further criticism. “It’s never received complaints before, so you know.”

“Not that, you’re just… a little short for a good standing fuck.” He gives the side of his bunk a rueful pat– there’s not much space there, and the Spy is less than folding himself in.

The Spy isn’t sure how the Sniper figured, about his height– he’s nearly as tall as the other man… what, did he want to be on his toes the whole time? He pulls him over to the table, grabs a forearm and plants the Sniper’s palm flat to the laminate.

“Bend over.” He hisses, feeling a little self satisfaction at the Sniper’s grin and easy compliance.

He’s glad to be behind him, to be able to remain unseen during the process of psyching himself up, lingering on the preparation process just for the extra time. He pours himself into it, channels every moment of emotional turmoil the Sniper’s given him from the start into proving the man wrong about him– from the dismissive way he’d first been turned down, to the way his masculinity had been impugned, to the way the Sniper had blatantly flirted with him anyway, right up to this very moment, this too-obviously-a-pity-fuck he’d been tossed. He put it all into the act, alternating between rough and gentle, between attentive and callous, changing his approach around whenever he fears the Sniper might not be rating him among the best.

It helps, at least, to keep himself in line. He puts his mind to strategy, and it’s not quite politics– or, heaven forbid, baseball– but it keeps him from losing himself in the tight heat of the other man, until he feels the Sniper clench tight around him and hears him choke out a series of low obscenities, spilling into the Spy’s hand.

He tells himself to remain cool, after his own release, to distance himself from the inevitable 'that was fine, but let’s not do it again’, to put the lid on hope and remind himself that good things weren’t for him. He tells himself to light a couple cigarettes and say he’d had a real good time, button up his trousers and stroll out the door.

Instead, he tilts the Sniper’s chin back towards himself and leans in for a kiss.

He is indulged– bitterly, he thinks that’s all any of this has ever been, wishes he’d just braved the dangers of fucking a teammate after all– and then the Sniper catches his hand before he can go.

“I’ll let you know if I ever get an itch I can’t scratch. You… you know, you’ve got a few surprises in you.” He offers a smile, and there’s still a wall there, still a distance, he isn’t falling over himself to accept the Spy into his heart, but…

For the time being, it’s enough.

“I’ll do you the same courtesy.” He nods, and his own smile is not the smooth, assured smirk he’d hoped for, not even the slightly sheepish look the Sniper had given him, it feels to soppy, too grateful, too starry-eyed.

Still…

There’s a spring in his step on the way back to his own base, at the knowledge that he’d proven something, at least.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rimming ficlet in which Sniper has a superhumanly long tongue. I... do not write rimming often. Or like, ever. But it was for an exchange and I was happy to do my best at it.

The Sniper loves him like this, stretched out like a particularly self-satisfied cat, clothes– or at least most of them– long since discarded. The Spy has claimed the Sniper’s pillow for his own, and the Sniper knows there’s a smug little smile hidden in it, and he can hear the deep inhales the Spy tries to be sneaky about, knows he likes the smell of the pillow and the bunk and the camper more than he pretends. And, of course, the Spy’s back is arched just so, firm little white globes of his arse up in the air for inspection.

The Spy melts at the Sniper’s touch, a power trip he’s not used to, when he caresses him, firmer on each stroke, and he bends down, already crouched awkwardly at the foot of his bunk, to follow the curving line of one buttock with nibbling kisses, grinning at the Spy’s sigh, at the way he can feel the man squirm and relax in turns as he traces a rather ignoble scar with the tip of his tongue, as he spreads him open with thumbs pressed deep into hard muscle. He’s almost there, when the Spy turns his upper body to look back down at him, the move upsetting the display they’ve made.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Was gonna lick you out.”

“You mean– You were going to– your tongue– in my ass?!”

“You like being fucked.”

“Well– Yes, but…”

“You like being fingered.”

The Spy grins a little, in spite of his indignant disgust of just a moment prior. “Of course, with fingers like yours.”

“Tongue’s better.” The Sniper grins back, with a wink.

“But it’s your tongue, in your mouth, I–”

“You’ve got the cleanest bloody arse in Christendom.” The Sniper rolls his eyes. “I oughta know, I watched you shower last weekend. So thorough it’s indecent.”

“It isn’t… I mean… Do you… like this?” The Spy softens, though he doesn’t yet relent entirely, and the Sniper starts up a little massage, one hand rolling around a single buttock, all heat and calluses and muscle.

“I don’t stick my tongue up just anyone, but yeah. For someone I’m… with, regular, I do. Love the taste of the rest of you, why not?”

A smile twitches at the Spy’s lips, and he reaches back to ruffle the Sniper’s hair. “Oh? How much do you like the taste of me?”

“Love you. Need you. Want it bad sometimes, feel you come up behind me and all I can think about’s pinning you to the wall and getting under that suit for a taste of ya. Worse if I can smell you working up a sweat… think about pulling that damn mask up… just for enough of your throat to lick, just that much.”

The Spy rolls back to his front with a little hastily-hidden moan, and his hips push into the mattress. The Sniper presses another kiss to one cheek, before sinking his teeth into the flesh, just enough to sting for half a second.

“Then I start to think about dropping to my knees for ya…” He whispers, chuckling softly at the Spy’s reaction, the little signs he can’t suppress.

“And then?”

“Fuck my throat, first. Rough as you feel like, before you turn around, plant your hands on the wall, drop your trousers the rest of the way and sit on my face. You do like me on my knees, don’t ya, Spook? And I know you get greedy… could give me all the orders you like, I’d get you off again. Many times as you can take it.”

The Spy moans and spreads his legs, arching his back again. “Don’t ask me to kiss you after…”

The Sniper laughs. “Your own damn arse, fussy little bastard. You’ll be having too good a time to care… Got mouthwash, if it really matters to you.”

The Spy nods a little, and lets out a low sound, as the tip of the Sniper’s tongue traces up from just under his balls to circle the hole, to flick across.

“You like me when I’m filthy, anyway.” The Sniper says, his voice a low rumble, and he doesn’t know the words that spill out of the Spy at that, just that they’re delightfully obscene. “Oh, you are gorgeous…”

He dives back into it, after that, slow and thorough in opening the Spy up, pushing in a steady supply of saliva before daring to really enter, and the Spy is exactingly clean, undergoes the same pre-sex shower routine before every visit, but the trip out to the camper and the foreplay are enough to build up fresh sweat, and the Sniper has never been ashamed to enjoy that.

Never more than now, with his nose buried deep and his tongue buried deeper, and the Spy’s hips rocking under his touch, frotting himself against the mattress and pushing back into the Sniper.

Truth be told, the Sniper has only had one regular partner long enough for a thing like this, and the idea itself wasn’t a hard sell, so much as the hygiene ritual beforehand– dubbed almost more trouble than it was worth, he remembers, but the Spy is just that naturally clean, or maybe he just likes the feel, it comes to the same end, he’s a pleasure to devour, and the Sniper anticipates doing it again, maybe often, can see the Spy straddling his face in a hotel on the weekend sometime, or offering himself up on hands and knees, can see him being the one to ask for the act, and as the Sniper’s tongue nudges at the Spy’s prostate, his hand sliding under the Spy’s body to wrap around his cock, the fluttering clench of the Spy’s muscles around his tongue are gratifying.

He doesn’t stop even then, not until the Spy is whining helplessly and reaching back to shove at him, and he pulls away to curl alongside the other man, to slip between his thighs instead of trying to push more penetration onto him, rocking his hips and sucking a bite mark into the Spy’s shoulder, letting the gentle friction get him off, too primed from indulging in the long-held fantasy to need too much.

The Spy doesn’t push the mouthwash after, just reaches for an unfinished bottle of beer and passes it over, taking a swig of his own before lighting a cigarette.

“What did I tell ya?” The Sniper steals the cigarette long enough to steal a kiss as well, and the Spy does not protest it.

“Fantastic… you win.” He smiles, snatching his cigarette back and relaxing into the Sniper’s chest. “For that matter, so do I.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper kidnaps Spy, ultimately thinks better of it. 
> 
> There's, like... assisted-urinating, but it's not sexual? Just uncomfortable for everyone involved.

There are some days when the Sniper thinks he’s crazy, but then there are days like this, days that prove he’s just prepared.

The Spy had been more than ordinarily bothersome, really getting at him– the Sniper didn’t even think the man had gone after any of his teammates, unless they happened to be between them– and now, with the man out from a sharp clock to the head, the Sniper was grateful to have a good length of rope on hand, and gladder to have the bells.

The bells were among things he’d picked up off the floor of his nest and put into his junk box, he thinks they’d come off one of the Scouts a Christmas ago. He fixes them to the ropes as he ties the Spy up. He needs to know when the man wakes, and he especially needs to know if he tries to untie himself. One bell is placed over the Spy’s crossed wrists, the other tied to the ropes across his chest as an afterthought.

He props the Spy in the corner carefully, giving his cheek a pat and whistling, nodding to himself when the Spy doesn’t wake. He’s alive, and that means for as long as the Sniper can keep him that way, he won’t be getting in his hair. He bends low and reaches around, fumbling for the man’s watch and turning his cloak on. The last thing he wants is one of his teammates sending the spook off to respawn.

There’s a jingle, later in the day, but it’s brief, and silence follows. When the round ends and his team heads in from their victory for dinner, he dispels the cloak, smiling with satisfaction when the Spy blinks up at him.

“Good. You’re up. Here’s how things are gonna go, Spook. You’re my prisoner.”

“There are no prisoners in this war, bushman.”

“There’s one, and you’re it. See, you’ve been really getting on my last nerve. That’s two days solid you’ve hardly touched anyone but me out there. A man could take treatment like that personal.”

The Spy sneers, though there is a certain uncomfortableness betrayed by the way he shifts in his bonds.

“As long as I’ve got you on a short leash, well, I’ve got no worries.”

“And the bell?”

“The bells, kitten, are because even tied up, I don’t trust you.” He grins, dropping into a crouch and grabbing the Spy’s chin, reaching down with one finger to ring the bell.

The Spy twists away, though not as hard as he could, and not so far as to remove himself from the Sniper’s grasp.

“It’s a shame you’re awake so soon, really… There’s no way I’m leaving you alone long enough to get a proper dinner. We’ll just have to make do with what I’ve got up here.” He drops the Spy’s chin and retreats to dig through a crate, pulling out a package of beef jerky, and bringing over his coffee pot and mug. “Huh. Not much left. Looks like I’ll need to replenish my supplies. Well, we can eat something better when we make it out to the camper, I know I’ve got a couple good meals out there.”

“You plan on taking me back to your van?!” The Spy draws himself up as best he can. “For how long?! No! Unacceptable!”

“Might wanna keep your voice down, Spook. As it stands, you’re my little secret. If my team gets hold of you? Well, they might not be as keen to feed you, but I think I could talk them into keeping you alive and out of commission.”

The Spy glares, mouth snapping shut, jaw jutting out in one last bid of silent defiance. He refuses the Sniper’s offer of jerky, though when the rim of the coffee mug is pressed to his lips, he drinks. The Sniper thinks there’s gratitude in it– there’s a certain amount of pleasure, at least, and he takes some pride in that. This pot of coffee wasn’t cheap. Importing it, in particular, cost him.

He shares a couple more cups of coffee, though he continues to refuse the jerky while the Sniper works his way through the last of the package.

“Should be able to sneak out soon.” He says, reaching for the pot only to find it empty. He knows his canteen is– it’s the last pot of the day. He shrugs to himself. Figures it would go faster, between two. His attention snaps back up to the Spy at the rather agitated tinkling of bells. “Now you are not really that stupid.”

The Spy makes no answer, though when the Sniper grabs for him, he stills.

“You know I’m not letting you get free– and I don’t have to kill you, to put you down.”

“I need to get free.”

“When you’re more trouble than you’re worth, I’m sure you will. Not like I planned on keeping you forever, just… just long enough to teach you a lesson.”

“No– I need–” He shifts a little in the Sniper’s grip, looking to the side. “Could you let me go?”

“Didn’t even say pretty please.”

“Very well. I need the toilet. Now, can you let me go, and we will consider this a lesson learned?”

“I got jars you can use.” He drops the Spy to rummage through the crate again for a clean one. “Here, never been used.”

“I still need my hands, bushman.”

There’s a moment’s standoff between them, before the Sniper shrugs to himself again and unzips the Spy’s trousers, reaching into his fly and pulling him out with the minimum required content, sliding the jar into place.

The Spy can’t look at him, blushing past the edges of his mask, and in spite of the pressing insistence from his bladder, he’s barely able to go, with that level of assistance– that level of involvement from another human being. He feels like a child, or an invalid, and the Sniper of all people…

The Sniper is completely businesslike about it, and the Spy thinks that almost makes it worse. He feels a renewed anger, and the dizziness and throbbing in his head doesn’t help matters any.

“Do you know why I have been tormenting only you these past couple of days?” He spits, eager to shove the truth in the Sniper’s face and heedless of the consequences to himself. “It isn’t because I hate you.”

“Yeah? News to me. Engineer finally manage to scare you off– or is it the Pyro, hanging around him too much?”

“It’s because I want you, you idiot! And I can never have you, and– and you would never have considered it! You look at me like I am hardly even here! You would never want me– Do you know what it feels like to be overlooked so completely by someone you desire?” The words tumble out before he can remember why they are dangerous to say, but he’s sick from holding it in so long, and his head won’t clear, and there is still more to say, the Sniper watching dumbly. “It makes me hurt, mad, crazy, and I– At least when I kill you, for a moment I can make you hurt too. And for a moment I have you… and now you have me and you don’t even want me. Are– Are you going to kill me now?”

The Sniper shakes his head rapidly. “Did you make all that up to get me mad enough to kill you?”

“… Yes?”

He frowns. The Spy’s eyes are glassy, not right, and the holes in his plan, or at least the cruelty of it, seem plain for the first time.

The Sniper unties the ropes, tossing them back towards the crate, bells and all. The Spy doesn’t move, and doesn’t protest being hefted up over the Sniper’s shoulder. He is oddly still and silent through the trip out to the camper, where he allows himself to be wrapped in a blanket and fed.

“Am I still your prisoner?” He asks, tapping his spoon against the bottom of an empty bowl.

“I don’t even know anymore.” The Sniper sighs. “How’s the head?”

“Not good.”

“What… Why… You want me?”

“It is less simple than that, I think.”

“You should go and find your Medic. You tell him you hit your head in a fight and had to sneak back from behind enemy lines when you came to, and… and I won’t tell anyone about that other stuff. I don’t think I ought to ask you more questions when you’re all… punch-drunk, or… concussed or something.”

“And tomorrow? Am I to stay away from you?”

“I don’t know, mate. I’d like to be able to do my job part of the day.” He sighs. “Tomorrow, I do my job and you do yours. And then… maybe we get things straightened out.”

The Spy nods, getting a little unsteadily to his feet, and leaving the camper only with the Sniper’s help.

“Can you make it home okay?”

“Thank you, yes. Sniper… Thank you.”

“My fault to begin with, isn’t it?”

“Still.” He attempts a smile, before shuffling off into the distance.

The Sniper watches, until the Spy is out of sight, and climbs into bed feeling unsure about his own motives as much as the Spy’s.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other rimming ficlet, requested based on the first.

He feels positively virginal, spread out on his stomach in the middle of the bed in the Spy’s hotel room, and he didn’t think he was going to be comfortable with all the bloody pampering, but then the bath had felt relaxing-verging-on-miraculous, and the massage had doubled that, and as much as he hates feeling unprepared and unknowledgeable… so far, he hasn’t been led astray.

“Have you ever had a man before, Cher?” The Spy’s whisper curls into his ear, the Spy’s hands trail up and down his back still, and it takes the Sniper half a moment to catch up.

“Had you last weekend.”

The Spy chuckles. “And before me, has any man ever fucked you?”

“No. Did– I mean, sure, you could, fair’s fair.”

Another chuckle, and it’s the strangest thing how there’s nothing mean in it. “Oh, and some day I am sure I shall. But let us take the slow road to get there, it will be much more enjoyable for you. And I do love to… taste virgin territory…”

The Sniper feels a blush flare up at that fresh reminder of his own inexperience, and the leg up that gives the Spy on him. He doesn’t mind losing in an honest competition, and the Spy has given him plenty of those, but he does hate to be completely outclassed in any arena, even this one. He’s never been ashamed of the relatively small number of notches on his bedpost, but he’s a little embarrassed to lack the skills that would have come with more experience, to lack the basic knowledge of what it is a couple of men really do and how, and what the Spy plans on doing with him if he’s not going to fuck him.

He lets it go as the massage starts up again, feels like butter under the Spy’s deft hands. Small– smaller than the Sniper’s, at any rate– but strong, and definitely just as dangerous doling out pleasure as with a knife. A knife might stab through his heart once and put him out of commission for a few minutes, but this… this feels like it could take his heart clean away and keep it. He has muscles that have been tense so long he’s forgotten they could loosen, and scar tissue that’s bunched up tightly and ached since inception, and the Spy eases it all until the Sniper isn’t sure what’s left of himself without old pain.

And then, then the Spy’s lips touch the back of his neck, and he gives a little hum of permission or encouragement, too wrung out for words, and the Spy’s lips skate down his back.

They keep going, dropping kisses, some quick and others wet and open. He feels his cock twitch against the mattress at one of those, feeling the sounds the Spy makes and the trace of his tongue and a hint of his teeth. It’s at the small of his back, the Spy’s hands on his hips, and he sighs, figuring that for the end of it.

The Spy’s hands slip in to caress his backside, and after a firm squeeze, he feels himself being spread open, the Spy’s teeth closing in on the teeth of one cheek.

That, that has to be the end of it. There’s nowhere else to go. He gets ready to roll over, waiting for the Spy to prompt him to, and then the Spy’s tongue is back.

“Oh, fuck!” He hisses, grinding into the mattress as it strokes over his hole twice in slow laps before circling, just the wet, nimble tip of it now, and the Spy is moaning, he can feel just the ghost of the vibration of it… “Oh, fuck, Spook…”

“Mm… next time, next time. Will you let me do this, now?”

“Y-yeah, please, yeah.” He angles his hips back where the Spy had had them and tries to hold still and not think about it. It feels good, he can examine what he thinks about it later.

Would he do the same? Maybe, they were both about as clean as– well, he was as clean as he’d been all year, and the Spy had been in the tub with him and always seemed far too clean for the battlefield. And it wasn’t as though he really shied away from things other people might call filthy… After all, it wasn’t as though it was all that bad, it was just…

“Oh…” He froze, confusion and arousal still having it out in his head, as the Spy’s tongue worked up into him. He tried turning, but there wasn’t much he could really see, he could only feel…

That was new. Somehow unexpected, even in light of the fact that the man had been licking at his hole to begin with. There was something about actually having him push inside that was very different, though, and he was grateful for the slow care the Spy was taking, the way he could gauge just how much time the Sniper needed to adjust.

He feels sick to his stomach for less than a second at the newness and the rush of lust he isn’t quite ready to take in, and he drops his head back down to the bed. Even grounded against the pillow, it spins, but the Spy’s hand had works its way to his cock, and he’s being stroked and played with along with the Spy’s ministrations. It doesn’t help his head feel any less dizzy, but the sick feeling quickly becomes exhilaration and heat.

The Spy rubs his back again after, with one hand, and the Sniper could crane his neck enough to see him lick the other, from where he’d caught the Sniper’s release. He looks smug– under any other circumstances, insufferably so, but now he closes his eyes in bliss and smears a little come across his lower lip and chin before his hand drops to his own straining erection.

The Sniper rolls over onto his back when the Spy stops rubbing it for him, and lets the man come across his belly with a satisfied groan. He’s too exhausted, slightly strung out still on sex, to give a second thought to the mess, or even a first. He just offers a tired smile when the Spy lights his cigarette, and provides an arm for the man to lie down on, curling it around his shoulders.

“You… are incredibly hot right now.” The Spy sighs, stroking the Sniper’s chest and gazing up at him. “Thank you, for letting me try that. It isn’t for everyone… Sometimes, it isn’t even for me. With you, it is for me.”

“Mm. With you, ’s for me, so that works out.” He smiles, closing his eyes. He takes a few more deep drags before the Spy takes his cigarette away, to put out in the ashtray, but by then, he’s so close to sleep he barely notices.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper, Spy, and Australian women. In which Sniper discovers the wonderful world of bisexuality.

The Sniper doesn’t think about his first time very often– he remembers it, dimly, as an afterthought to the time he always flashes to when the subject of first times come up.

He was in Adelaide, and sitting at the bar of a dingy little pub nestled between gleaming high rises, contemplating what he was going to do with his future after his stint in Nasho, and knowing he could never go back to his parents’ station, to their life.

She’d been a very pleasant diversion, the kind of girl he’d seen on television and never out in the stretches of nowhere he’d called home before. Statuesque and built with at least as much muscle as he was, with shiny dark hair that fell around her shoulders, her moustache trimmed down to one of those fad styles at the time, a ladies’ moustache all the way, and just a little bit of silky chest hair visible in the deep vee of her blouse.

Her watch was real, and so was her jewelry, and she ordered the top shelf stuff when she ordered, and he’d literally asked her what a classy sheila like herself was doing in a dive like that, and blushed as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

She’d laughed, and she’d said she could ask the same about him, had him pegged at first sight for some jackaroo, some boy fresh into the city after a life in the country. No visible effects of Australium, and no visible signs of class.

She’d liked that.

They’d fucked like animals, in her apartment, everything about it clean and modern and appointed with perhaps a touch more wealth than taste. He played up his awe at her standard of living, once he realized she got off on dragging home some poor dirty no-one, the kind of man her family wouldn’t look at in the street. It wasn’t a relationship, by any means, but for one night and half a morning, he treated her like a princess and she loved it– and she made it more than worth his while. Enough that he remembers her first, and often.

Leaving Oz, there were no women like that. Sometimes he’d meet an athletic girl, and he’d do his best to have a good time, but it was never the same.

And lately…

He doesn’t know when he started looking at the Spy, and he isn’t sure what he first noticed. He doesn’t think the man would be flattered by the blunt comparison, but he can’t help making it, more and more often.

The way the Spy carries himself, flash and pride and grace, so very uptown compared to the rest of Teufort… just in a class by himself, really. The stubble he gets, darkening after a couple of days without a proper clean shave until the Sniper can’t help wondering how he’d look with a nice little ladylike sort of moustache.

The sparse chest hair he’s glimpsed when the Spy is half out of uniform– the balaclava always in place, even when he wanders through the base in his pyjamas, and how bloody dainty his hands are, something that strikes the Sniper whenever they reach for the coffeepot at the same time. The way he’s not quite as tall, the way his arms at least are not quite as built, and yet the Sniper knows he’d have the strength to reel him in, hold him hard, wrestle back a bit in bed, just a little…

In a lot of ways, of course, he doesn’t resemble the Sniper’s not-quite-first-time at all, but when it comes down to the important parts, he’s everything the Sniper’s ever really loved in a woman, the things he’s missed since leaving Australia, that no other country has. And the delightful knowledge that if the Spy was an Australian girl, he’d be far, far too good for the Sniper, and that always made them so much sweeter.

They both sit by the sidelines during the informal ‘entertainment exchange’. Dime novels and comic books have been traded, as well as last month’s magazines– though some were too specialized to have other takers. The Engineer’s Popular Science magazines only ever got rehomed if there was a specific article that would appeal to someone else, and the Medic never even bothered offering most of his journals around. The ones that weren’t about medicine were usually about birds, or in German. The Spy can read it fine, and has never been interested to.

With the Soldier and the Pyro both gone, round two of the exchange begins, and that’s where the Spy and Sniper both drop out, as the men trade around various masturbatory aids, magazines that have not been torn or rendered unsanitary.

“You never swap?” The Sniper tilts his head towards the little ado, and the Spy coughs nervously.

“Not really. I am a man of… particular tastes. Just as no one ever wants to read about pigeon racing in Dusseldorf, no one wants my… 'entertainment’. And… you?”

He licks his lip, and the Sniper isn’t sure if he’s projecting desire onto nervousness, but then the nervousness is there for a reason, and he can’t believe he’s contemplating what he is, but this has been simmering in him so long.

“I’m really only into Australian porn.” He shrugs. That’s honest, at least. “American stuff doesn’t do it for me. The girls are just…”

He gives another shrug, and the Spy leans in, curious.

“Really? You have me intrigued now. I do not suppose I have ever met an Australian woman. Are they that much finer than Americans?”

“It’s a whole different bloody world.”

The Spy leans back into his seat again, musing over the idea, not sure what to picture. “You have me curious now. More a scientific curiosity, I have my own proclivities, but…”

The Sniper swallows, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “You wanna see, then?”

The Spy grins, nodding, and they make their exit, going separate ways, coming to a quiet agreement as they part.

The Sniper brings a magazine to the Spy’s room, and it falls open to a clearly well-thumbed page.

For a while, the Spy cannot quite piece together what it is he is looking at.

A little more muscular than most women, perhaps, but that in itself is not enough to throw him. Still, the breasts indicate that she is a woman, and not a lean but toned man…

It’s the hair more than the muscles that confuses him.

The pose is classic pinup, the girl kneeling in the center of some bed, satin sheets bunched up beneath her as she lifts her ginger curls up. They spill over her forearms a bit, her hands hidden under, behind her head, her arms spread. The coy look in her eyes, the long lashes. The silky little tap-pants with the scalloped edge that still reveal miles of leg, their strength clear even through sheer hose. All of it is nearly standard.

There, though, above her perfectly sculpted cupid’s-bow lips, painted in a bright crimson… There sits the moustache, neatly trimmed and waxed.

It is not the first time that the Spy has seen lipstick beneath a moustache, but he has never seen that combination appearing on someone with natural breasts, and there is no question in his mind that this woman has those. They do not sit like they are in any way fake, they have an honest weight, held up in a bra that, like her hose, is sheer enough that he has no doubts about them.

And between those breasts, which he observes with a rather clinical dispassion, there is chest hair. Not the thick continent-shaped pelt of a Saxton Hale, it is delicate. A triangle that begins just beneath the spread of her collarbone and tapers down into her cleavage, the hairs straight and silky-looking.

“That.” The Sniper asserts. “That is a lady. What I wouldn’t give to meet a sheila like that, you know?”

“I… almost know.” The Spy nods.

“I just… I miss it.” He admits. “I don’t like how hairless the girls around here are… I could live without a moustache, but not even stubble, and forget about chest hair, and… I mean, I wouldn’t speak ill of a girl I went to bed with after the fact, I may be a killer but I’m not a cad. I’m not saying that these girls just lie there, I’m not saying they don’t know how to please a bloke, but… hell, it’s just not the same as having a girl who can really grab ya and throw ya down if she wants to. Doesn’t feel right going to bed with someone who’s not as strong as I am. That… that probably sounds crazy to you. Dunno what girls are like in France, I didn’t look for any the one time I was there.”

“That does not sound crazy to me.” The Spy shakes his head.

On the next page, the bra and tap pants are gone, though the stockings remain, and the girl lies on her back with her hair like a flaming halo around her. Her breasts are objectively fantastic, the Spy will agree to that. It is a good position for them, and he can imagine the weight of them, and the bounce. Her hands are on her knees, and she spreads her legs open, and between them there is more hair, and quite a lot of pink, and the Spy looks away.

“That does not sound crazy to me at all.” He passes the magazine back, his hand trembling just a little. “I think I might enjoy Australian pornography quite a bit more than I expected to.”

“What do you go for?”

The Spy does not reach into his nightstand, or under his mattress. He goes to a small lockbox beneath his bed, opens it with a pick the Sniper does not even see him take out, and then he pulls out the pictures.

Men. Most of them quite attractive, if only in that there are a few the Sniper thinks could pass for an Australian girl given the right making over. At least, if he only looks at parts, those parts could be downright feminine, by his own standards.

He isn’t sure how to proceed. It was what he’d dimly hoped for, in some recesses of his mind, when he’d come. He wanted someone, and the Spy was so much closer than any woman he’d met in years. He could talk to the Spy, which was a bonus. Unless this bollocksed everything up and they had to stop talking after. And that was presuming there would be a 'now’ for an after to proceed.

The Spy is even more nervous than the Sniper had been in sharing his, and he offers a smile that he hopes isn’t too shaky.

“Do you think maybe… you and I could be a… solution of sorts, to each others’ problems?” He offers.

The Spy raises an eyebrow in the direction of the Sniper’s magazine. “You are aware, I hope, that I am not in possession of all of the same parts, as your dream girl.”

“Actually, my dream girl has black hair.”

“Don’t be cute. Men who like women– even beefy, hairy women– they don’t always… They don’t handle it well, waking up next to someone like me.”

“Fuck, I don’t care.” He runs a hand over his face, glasses pushed to one side in the motion. “I’m lonely, and you’ve gotta be lonely, place like this. And you’ve got the things I’ve been missing, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve traded handjobs because it’s better than nothing. Just want to be held by someone who can hold on hard, just want the chest I rest my head on to have some hair on it. I’m not asking you to marry me, but we could get off together.”

The Spy considers this a moment, resolve crumbling in the face of his own long-unvoiced loneliness. The years spent telling himself he wasn’t lonely, because lonely spies were too easy to get to, and they trained handsome men to take advantage of lonely spies like him in particular. Not as many as they trained pretty women, but he knew they were out there.

“I am not a woman.” He says, his last protest.

“I know. But could you just for a couple minutes, for me, be a lady? And I promise I’ll be whatever you want.”

“Just be you.” The Spy sighs, leaning up to wind his arms around the other man’s neck, tilting his head in an invitation. “And do not make me regret this.”

The Sniper kisses him, with a soft groan at the long-missed sensation of stubble catching his own when he nuzzles at the Spy’s upper lip. Another way in which the Spy is perfect, he conforms naturally to the role. Not passive, exactly, as his hands slide down to grip the Sniper’s arms hard, but feminine in ways the Sniper can’t even put his finger on. That the Spy is not a woman doesn’t bother him, though he thinks it would have, years ago. The Spy kisses like a lady when the Sniper asks him to– and how much of that is down to the Spy’s acting ability and how much to the way his idea of a lady stacks up to the Spy’s idea of a gentleman, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

The balaclava is the one thing the Spy does not strip off, but the Sniper can live with not having a headful of hair to run his fingers through, when the Spy’s chest is there to be stroked at. He nibbles at the hair with just his lips, gives gentle tugs. It’s the hardest chest he’s ever been intimate with, but that matters less than he once feared, and it’s so nice to have what he never felt safe asking for during his army days, the kissing and touching instead of just the handjobs. The intimacy with someone.

After, when the Spy lets him cuddle back up to rest a cheek over his heart, and the Sniper lights their cigarettes, he takes the time to really reflect on the fact that he’s had sex with a man.

Just handjobs, sure, but handjobs with kissing counts in his book.

It doesn’t bother him.

“Spook?” He whispers.

“Yes?” The Spy’s voice is tight with trepidation.

“Just be you, all right?” He smiles, feeling the other man relax. “I mean, you can be girly for me any time you want, but… just be you right now.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yeah. Reckon.”

“All right.” The Spy smiles as well, stroking the Sniper’s hair and watching the smoke from his cigarette drift up to the ceiling.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper/Spy/Sniper. Sometimes these things just happen...
> 
> Jarate mention, but like... not actually a fetish thing? But to anyone sensitive to that, the heads-up.

t began as a fight. It always began as a fight. The Spy isn’t even sure who had moved first to make it into something more, only that he’s bruised, bleeding, soaked with piss, and having the best kiss of his life. The passion is incredible, the heat of it, the way the Sniper’s mouth tastes like the soul of the desert, the way his teeth lay claim to the Spy’s lips whenever the kiss threatens to break.

When it does, he is panting, as much as he has after full-blown fucks. Still bruised, still bloody, still damp and reeking of the RED Sniper’s urine, and pinned to the wall by the man himself, hands fisted in his suit. He worries about the seams, in some dim corner of his mind, but not the fabric.

 

“On your knees.” The Sniper orders, voice rough. There’s lust there, unmistakable need, but he keeps enough mastery of himself that it still comes out a command, and the Spy’s grin is sharp and dangerous, but he kneels just the same, pupils dilating as he watches the Sniper pull his hardening cock out.

The Sniper mutters under his breath, a ceaseless line of filth as the Spy sucks him, eager. He feels almost possessed by something, the way he needs this so badly, the way he craves the scent and the taste of this man. He is already a mess, and it has never been enough.

They both freeze, at the sound of a slow clap, and the Spy feels his stomach drop, the Sniper’s wilting erection pulls away from his lips leaving a dribbling line of spit and precome to connect them, and they both turn to see the BLU Sniper, standing in the doorway.

“Thought I’d come over, seeing the two of you putting on such a show.” He sneers, one hand resting over his kukri as he stops clapping, watching them both warily for signs of a fight.

“Fuck off.” The RED Sniper snarls, covering himself with both hands.

The Spy, on all fours, makes no move at all. He hasn’t unzipped his trousers yet, a small blessing, but even with this interruption, he’s achingly hard. His teammate lopes over, bends and reaches around and gives him a squeeze.

“Shame no one’s giving you any attention, darlin’.”

“I said fuck off!” The RED Sniper forgets about his modesty, lunging forward and drawing back a fist, but the BLU Sniper’s quickly raised kukri stops him short.

“Oh no. You need to learn some manners, making this sweet thing do all the work for ya, and leaving him all bloodied up, too.”

“He’s not taking advantage of me.” The Spy finds his voice, coming to the RED’s defense. “It happened, sometimes things happen, but look at us–”

“Believe me, darl, I did.”

“I have landed blows as well.” The Spy frowns at the joke.

“You fight and fuck a lot?”

Neither gives him an answer, and he wipes at the Spy’s chin with a thumb. “Should’ve just come to me, if that’s your type. Safer, yeah? Or is it the fighting that gets you off?”

“It just happened.” The Spy shrugs. It does not escape his notice that the BLU Sniper’s jeans are a little tight. 

The RED Sniper retreats, though not very far. Enough to tuck himself back in and zip himself back up, eyes burning into his rival as the man drops down to crouch beside the still-kneeling Spy, to slip an arm around his shoulders and lean in close to whisper.

“I’d love to have you.” The BLU Sniper says. “If this thing’s not exclusive.”

“Like I said, it just happened.”

“Good. Maybe it shouldn’t happen with him. Playing with the other side’s frowned on, that’s all.”

“Rude, coming to a man’s space and kicking him out of bed so you can take his partner.” The Spy raises an eyebrow, and the BLU Sniper smirks back over at his counterpart.

“Well… if you and me and him all keep this quiet,then who says I’m kicking him out of bed? That work out for you, mate?”

“It bloody well does not.” He takes a swift step forward, but the BLU Sniper is already palming his crotch, stroking the back of the Spy’s head.

“You sure? I’ll share if you will. That’s got to be a fantasy for you.” He smiles down at the Spy. “I mean, if this is your type, yeah? Double your fun?”

The Spy weighs the pros and the cons of this arrangement, glad neither man can see him blush. He betrays nothing in his expression, only nods.

“I am perfectly capable of handling two.” He smiles smoothly.

The RED Sniper has a sense of injury still, over having his time with the Spy poached this way. All the fighting, all the intimacy– however violent– they’d built up, and now a rival was just going to swoop in and take what was supposed to be his and the Spy’s alone… He’d waited so long, to be sure of that connection, before letting passion get the better of him, and now someone else thought he could just waltz in and lay a claim on the Spy because they were teammates? But the Spy hadn’t said no to it, and so he returns, moving the BLU Sniper’s hand away from the back of the Spy’s head to stroke it himself.

“Really what you want?” He asks.

“For now.” The Spy shrugs. “If you will stay.”

“Course.” He takes his trousers down again, pumps his cock until it’s hard once more, and is a little gratified to see that the BLU Sniper seems to fall short, even if it’s only a trick of the light. He certainly feels as if he has more of the Spy’s attention, and that’s all that matters.

The BLU Sniper, cock out, asserts himself, and for a moment, the Spy’s mouth is stretched wide around their dueling cockheads, the Spy’s tongue slipping up between and around, the Spy’s eyes half-closed in the ecstasy of being used.

“Beautiful.” The RED Sniper hisses, stroking his cheek. “That’s right, love, oh, that’s good…”

“Mm, perfect, yeah.” The BLU agrees, hand moving back around the base of the Spy’s skull. “Take it all, darlin’, such a lovely fuckin’ slut…”

The RED Sniper pauses at that, feels a surge of defensive anger that seems out of place, when the Spy doesn’t seem to be bothered by it, and when, after all, he and the Spy murder each other for a living. Hell, being called a slut can’t be worse than being doused in piss, and yet he’d love to knock the BLU Sniper’s teeth out for saying it.

Pausing loses him his spot, as the BLU Sniper nudges him aside and slides in deeper, with a groan and a smug grin. The RED Sniper moves to kneel down by the Spy, reaching around to get his trousers down.

It’s awkward going, but he lowers himself down onto his back, levers himself up just enough on his elbows and scoots under the Spy, gets in place to suck him off in turn.

There’s a lightness to the taste of him, a cleanness, at odds with the musk of his sweat, but when the Spy’s precome starts, ‘clean’ is the best word the Sniper can think of for it. He swallows, until the Spy is coming, and swallows still, until the Spy is spent, and when he emerges, the Spy is a gorgeous wreck, the BLU Sniper’s come across his mask, his softening, spit-slick cock hanging down, his expression dazed with pleasure.

“Now who needs to learn manners?” He jabs, sliding up and pulling the Spy down to be kissed.

The BLU Sniper doesn’t leave. He watches, cock still hanging out, as the RED Sniper pulls out an old yellow bandana and cleans the Spy’s face, and as the two kiss and roll each other over, as the Spy’s suit is stripped away and as the RED Sniper lies on top of him to rut against his belly, the thrust of his hips slow and lazy.

Only when the Spy is back on his hands and knees and the RED Sniper back in his mouth does the BLU Sniper make any move at all, beyond the occasional stroke to his second erection.

He pulls out a foil packet, tears it open and gets enough petroleum jelly on his fingers to coat them, and the RED Sniper is incensed when he realizes, but the Spy doesn’t stop, just moans around the RED Sniper’s cock as he’s stretched and slicked and then, finally, fucked.

There’s something about being between the two of them like this, a freedom in letting go completely. They could kill him, either one of them, both of them together… they could tear him apart and he’d be whole in the morning, the only thing that matters is the moment, and the Spy has not had the moment in so long. He would encourage them both to take him harder, except he wouldn’t stop sucking the RED Sniper off now if his life depended on it.

An exciting thought on its own, and he thinks he’d love that, too. Love having a blade at his throat, love having a hand pushing him down forcefully and the threat of pain or a messy death. Love being pinned to the wall with arrows and toyed with for hours, while the rest of both teams moved on to contest a new point. Love to be caught sneaking around by the splash of a jar against him and to fall to his knees in false penitence, to offer anything for his life, anything, anything…

Under the circumstances, this game of three is fine, and he gets to feel used and fucked out, and that’s good, but he wants to play out the story in his mind, the one he didn’t get to finish, of being caught by the enemy alone.

The RED Sniper comes down his throat. The BLU Sniper comes across his back. He comes again into someone’s hand, after collapsing and rolling onto his side, but he is strung out on it all and couldn’t be sure which, their calluses too much the same.

“I win.” He hears his teammate hiss, smug in imagined victory.

“No.” The Spy murmurs, and in the stillness, he’s not sure until he opens his eyes to see them both staring down at him that he was heard.

“What?”

“First, it is cute that you think I am winnable.” He laughs. “But naive. Is this a competition the two of you have for me?”

“Not that I was aware.” The RED Sniper says, uneasy, as he pulls his trousers on.

“It kind of turned that way.” The BLU Sniper shrugs.

“What are the conditions for victory?” The Spy sounds amused.

The RED Sniper seethes, moving to a corner. “There aren’t any. Not a bloody game.”

“Don’t look at it like that, I didn’t mean…” The BLU Sniper rubs the back of his neck.

“No, tell me. Do I sound upset?”

“I mean, you and me, we’re on the same team, that’s for starters.”

“That means nothing to me.” The Spy shrugs, amusement flickering briefly to supreme boredom.

“Got to finish the first blowjob from you.” He says lamely.

“He gave me one.”

“Well… I mean…”

“Let me guess, you fucked my ass?”

“Look, I didn’t mean it like–”

“If we are talking about having a claim on me, you were too late from the start.” The Spy shrugs, merriment in his eyes. “He threw his piss at me.”

“You hate that.”

“Usually, but I have never been more clearly marked as someone’s territory.” He laughs, getting to his feet. “Either all of us win, or neither of you did. Understand? I like a good fuck. This was certainly that. But if you start playing it like a competition for my fair hand, then no one has me. I don’t play those games.”

“Wasn’t a game.” The RED Sniper mutters, still sulking.

The Spy moves to rest a hand on his arm, to lean in and kiss his cheek. “Of course not, cher. That is why you may have me again, if you wish. If you can catch me before I kill you.”

Death threats, the RED Sniper reflects, have never sounded so much like flirtation.

The Spy dresses and vanishes, leaving the two Snipers standing about awkwardly.

“Draw, then?” The BLU Sniper offers his hand.

“Nah, mate. Think you just might have lost.” The RED chuckles, but he accepts the handshake anyway. “Not just you bollocksing it up, I think he likes playing it rough. That’s sort of my lot in life, playing it rough with him. You play your cards right with both of us, though, and who knows. Take a lot of buttering up if you want me to say yes again, but I’m not in charge of who he fucks.”

The BLU Sniper nods, before making his way cautiously back to his own side.

In the RED Sniper’s nest, the Spy appears, smiling as he trails fingertips up the back of the Sniper’s neck.

“I like you.” He grins, leaning on the man. “And yes, I do like playing it rough. And cher? I hope next time he comes around, if he asks us both, you will say yes again.”


End file.
